Blame It On Speculation
by SassyPlatypus
Summary: And the meltdown continues... (A what if piece. Inherently JavaJunkie.)
1. Drama Mama

**Title**: Blame it on Speculation  
**Author**: Starlyn a.k.a. SassyPlatypus  
**Rating**: R and then some. (Consider yourself warned.)  
**Setting**: Episode 414 "The Incredible Shrinking Lorelais".  
**Spoilers**: Anything and everything up to that point, I guess.  
**Disclaimer**: Amy and Dan rock! (As does Lane.) And even though I don't own Gilmore Girls, I rock too.  
**Synopsis**: After watching Dean and Rory commit a mighty transgression in the season four finale, I started to wonder what it would take for Luke and Lorelai to do the same. Moreover, I pondered over whether the act was even feasible being that we're dealing with two responsible 30-year-olds, and not a couple of horny 19-year-olds, such as myself.  
**A.N**. This is the first fanfic I've ever written so any _constructive_ criticism would be much appreciated. Suggestions ahoy, folks! Flames suck but diss 'em out if you have nothing better to do.

* * *

Ch 1: Drama Mama

* * *

"It's okay," Luke murmurs. 

Even though the words seem ludicrous in the midst of all my problems, they're still wonderful to hear. 

And it's probably the way he's talking to me that does it, because let's face it: Luke's using a tone more paternal than anything Richard Gilmore has ever bestowed upon me. Very comforting… you know, in spite of the circumstances. 

So I let him hold me. For some reason, while Luke's holding me, time stands still. It's an entirely different calm than the kind I achieve with Rory, who would've sat me down, strategizing several ways out of the wormhole. 

No, this has less to do with logic and more to do with reassurance. Luke is here and he won't let anything happen to me. He won't let me fall. The very fact that my legs are jello and I'm not sliding off the bench attests to that surety. 

And for a little while, inexplicably, that's all that matters. 

(Until I get a good whiff of the inexplicable, that is.) 

See, I'm digging my make-up muddled face into his chest and inhaling the subtle byproduct of hair mousse and cologne when, suddenly, I feel the teensiest ounce of pressure on the top of my head. 

_Huh?_ I stir slightly. 

"It's okay," I hear again, softer this time, and am gathered tighter. I quickly realize that that touch was no ordinary touch—it came from Luke. He was kissing me. And if that isn't strange enough, I think he smelled my hair as he did it. 

The awareness of such sends a shiver down my spine. 

But why? I mean, big deal, right? I'm upset, he's trying to comfort me, we're not talking "When Harry Met Sally" thus far. And so what if he smelled my hair? It's one of those things that can't be avoided what with those crazy ass pheromones leaking out left and right. Hell, it wasn't even a real kiss. The equivalent to a pat on the back, some might say. 

It was nothing. At least, I think it was nothing… 

Cripes. I'm reading way too much into this, aren't I? See, _this_ is my problem. Why am I so prone to over-analyzation? Moreover, why am I prone to over-analyzation of my over-analyzation? Why do I invent words? Why can't I simply let my mind go blank like normal people? Maybe tap into that hidden realm of Zen or Kabala or whatever the hell it is Madonna's raving about this year. 

Great. Lord knows I've got enough problems without throwing my chaotic psyche into the mix. But I guess I have a legitimate excuse to be feeling this way. It's been an unusual night, come to think of it. Weird enough to make me wanna say: Pigs really can fly, Lorelai, so start scarfing. 

_Ooo, food_. 

A cheeseburger sounds really good right about now. After all, dinner never did make it to the table and I wasn't able to eat a thing at the Amityville Horror household. I wonder how long we're going to sit here anyway. It's been a sound five minutes, hasn't it? Interesting… that this rapt and sensitive mutation of Luke seems bound and determined to wait it out with me. Hehe. I rather like his softer side. I bet if I whimpered or something he might even feel compelled to kiss me again… 

Aww, crap! 

What-in-the-name-of-Jude-Law-and-all-that-is-holy was _that_?! Have I gone completely insane? Nevermind. I'm fantasizing about Luke kissing me so that goes without saying. But hey, is it my fault he looks especially good tonight? 

_Kinda_, my inner voice replies. 

Oh, right. I guess it is. Because I asked him out and duh, Luke primped for me. 

Wait a second, Luke primped for me… 

_Come again?_

Oh my God, Lorelai, Luke primped for you. 

_Shut up! …really?_

'Fraid so. Ouch. This is bad. This is very bad. This is oh-so-bad. This is outer-limits-y! 

Okay. Admittedly, most people wouldn't think too much of such a meager gesture but then again, few have come to know the Monosyllabic Diner Man the way that I have. And if there's one thing I know for certain, it's that Luke hates primping. Anything more than zestfully clean is downright fruity in his book. 

What tipped me off, you ask? Might have been the sole bottle of shampooconditioner sitting atop his bathroom shelf. Or maybe it was the excessive lecturing reserved for Rory and me after our expensive outings to Sephora. Oh, and not so confidentially, I once gave the guy a bottle of Stetson Man for Christmas and he refused to serve me coffee well into New Years. 

And sure, I suppose I have had _some_ leeway with the wardrobe, but I had to acquire through a pretty extensive amount of nagging. A tie here, a shirt there… This may even top the time I chased after him with the pretty pants and the slinky sweater. (Although whipping that belt in the air and scaring the diner patrons sure was fun!) 

But I digress. This is an occasion in which Luke chose to go all out _voluntarily_. Well, not _all_ out, I remind myself. At least he didn't shave. Even so, I musn't forget that Luke's always willing to go that extra mile for me. He's genuinely the bestest of all my friends who pee upright. 

i.e.: 

I ask him to fix a leaky faucet, he upgrades the shower head. I order regular pancakes, he brings me blueberry. I say dinner jacket, he goes metrosexual. 

Why is that? Why is he such a great guy? And why don't I ever tell him that? What, is my inn schedule soooo massive that I can't even take a second to say, 'hey, you're a pal'?! 'Thanks for keeping me afloat'? God, I'm shit. I'm shit, I'm shit, I'm shit! I bet the last thing Luke expected when I asked him to Sylvano's tonight was a reenactment of "Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown." 

And on that note, I really should apologize. 

"I really am sorry, Luke," I choke, raising my head and bumping my nose into his chin. His scruffy chin, I wince. 

Luke pretends not to notice the heightening of awkwardness. "About what?" 

"This!" I gesture at my weepy self. "This whole thing. This big fat ball of hysterics that Lorelai Gilmore, Stars' Hollow's very own Drama Mama, has dragged you into." 

"You're far from hysterical. I've seen worse." 

"So not the point. I mean, first, I cancel our dinner date after carelessly severing you from your flannel, might I add--" I hold up one finger to illustrate the beginning of my list. 

"Then, I drop a major guilt bomb on you by letting it leak that I was desperate and planning to ask for that gi-normous loan--" Second Finger. 

"And finally, poor you, having to sit here and waste all your time talking me down from the ledge!" 

Before I can raise the third, Luke grabs my hand and sets it down. 

"Lorelai, we're in the park." He's giving me that exasperated 'I'm not indulging you today' face. "There is no ledge." 

"Oh, there's a ledge!" I fire back, the impending waterworks just a hop and a skip behind me. "There is always a ledge, Luke, believe you me. And maybe it's not quite Grand Canyon-Mount Everest-scale but I like to think it's pretty respectable in its own right because it's the Lorelai ledge. The one that just keeps on going. Hell, I've been dancing around it for nearly thirty-six years but today," I sigh, "today I finally lost my balance. I just--I have hit rock bottom." 

"Oh, you have not," he grunts, patting my knee half-heartedly. 

"Yes, I have. No, wait," I let out a mirthless chuckle, "I forgot. No matter how bad this Gilmore's predicament, she hasn't quite hit rock bottom until her loved ones get wind of it. And what an unveiling that'll be! After tonight--after my father defended me to Gran and everything, God, what are they going to think of me?" 

And much to Luke's dismay, I'm crying again. 

"I'll tell you what they'll think! They'll think 'baah!'—there it is, the black sheep has dashed her dream, yet again. They won't understand it, Luke, because I should've been able to handle this. It's in my genes, it's in my…" I drop my head. "I am an enduring embarrassment to the Gilmore clan. I'm like Neil Bush, you know, I'm… I'm Michael Skakel!" 

Ever on cue, Luke slips his fingers between my own, lacing them tightly. 

"Hey, now," he squeezes dutifully. "Don't be ridiculous." 

"And then they'll bail me out. They'll bail me out like they love to do what with the guilt and rocks in the stomach and the strings tied onto the rocks and the innuendo and the… and…" 

"Ah, jeez, Lorelai," Luke is beginning to sound worried. "Don't do this." 

"I have no excuse! I can't cry Chilton or termites or... Chiltonian termites this time around! This time it's all me. And what sort of an example am I setting for my daughter? Remember my baby's graduation, Luke? She called me her role model and--and she admires me and if Rory were to be disappointed in me too, I just--how did I ever think I could handle this much this soon? I can't!" 

"You can. You can do it," Luke lets go of my hand to grab ahold my shoulders, forcing us to see eye to eye. "I've told you that you can do it a hundred times." 

"But I can't!" I shake my head vigorously and watch one of my unmanageable locks slap his cheek. "It's too much pressure all at once and I thought I was doing okay but I'm not and it sucks that I'm dumping this on you and beating you with my hair but Rory's always out of reach and Jason's--" 

I'm cut off by Luke's eyebrows, which are arching pretty profusely. It occurs to me that he has no idea who I'm talking about. 

"Jason, my boyfriend," I clarify, biting my tongue as he looks away in discomfort. "I, umm, I couldn't even begin to tell him about this without it sounding obligatory, you know. Plus, we're still in that early relationship stage where I want him to think the most of me." Luke's head snaps up. 

"You telling me this guy would actually be _ashamed_ of you if he knew?" 

"No! God, no. Jason's not like that. Really, he's not. But… I'd like to keep up the pretense just a little bit longer for him…for everyone, so that they'll keep on assuming I'm the successful together woman I always put myself out there to be." 

_There. I said it._

As the newly established lowest of the low, I slap my hands back onto my knees and rock forward to suck in some chilly night air, thoroughly exhausted. Exhausted and miserable. I can't believe that I went to all the trouble of ranting my little heart out and I still don't feel any relief. Matter of fact, I think I feel worse. 

Figuring I've exposed far too much of my quivering underbelly as it is, I move to lean on Luke again. But then he does the unthinkable--he pushes me away. _Luke pushes me away._ And none too gently. 

I stare at his riled expression with hurt and confusion. Is he angry at me? Please don't let it be that. The possibility that I pissed off what feels like my only friend in the world right now is too much to bear. 

"You know what?" Luke begins flatly, and I cringe because he's graver than I have ever seen him. "This isn't you." 

_Eh?_ I narrow my eyes. Is that good or bad? 

"This is not Lorelai Gilmore." 

_O-kay…_ He pauses briefly in anticipation of my forthcoming quip but, for once, I'm at a loss. 

"This is not the sharp, confident, beautiful woman with whom I trade wisecracks every day. It's not! It's not because the Lorelai that I know wouldn't give up like this. The Lorelai that I know wouldn't collapse. Damn it, the Lorelai that I know _never_ lets up! Would'ya look at yourself? 

"It's like where did the light go? Where are the jokes and the songs and the quotes and the… obscure and bizarre references to movies and books I've never even heard of?" 

_You should get out more_, I think, but don't say. 

"This is not that person, this is not the chronic smartass who has in-depth conversations with finger food and who—who plants Canadian coins in the cash register while my back's turned. 

_Hah._ Now how'd he know it was me? 

"This is not--" his hands are on my shoulders again, "the selfless friend who sews a dozen freakin' fairy costumes for every hokey town theater production no matter how lame it is and drags me kicking and screaming on opening night. Or how about the time she--you ran that three legged race with Kirk to benefit Stars' Hollow's annual petting zoo, huh? He nearly bagged the both of you trying to leap over that squirrel." 

"I actually did that for fun," I interject weakly. (Plus, they'd offered me free pellet food.) 

"Whatever, then." Luke cups my frozen face, and though I started staring at my lap about three this-is-not-Lorelai-agos, he's leaving me no choice but to meet his gaze. 

_His sexy, sexy, smoldering gaze_. 

Uh oh. 

"But the thing is that this is not you, Lorelai, the woman who built a successful life out of scratch and wound up raising the greatest kid in Connecticut." 

… 

The wind is blowing. The trees are rustling. And I am blushing, _genuinely blushing_, for the first time in two decades. 

And this is no mere damsel in distress, oh-I'm-so-flirty-kind-of-a-blush. This is no trick. I haven't blushed like this since the first time Christopher saw me without my clothes on. 

And boy, does that bring me back… 

I remember how stupid I felt, lying there across from him in his acid-washed jeans and Skid Row t-shirt. I remember wishing that I had a little bit more breast on top and maybe, you know, just a few more curves down below. I remember I was actually in the process of _apologizing_ for my adolescence before Chris shushed me, bringing a finger to my flapping lips. And once I'd piped down, he kissed me. God, he kissed me so sweetly, and told me that I was gorgeous. Absolutely the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen in his entire life. 

Now _that_, ladies and gentlemen, is how Luke has made me feel. Naked and beautiful. 

Before I know it my heart is racing a mile a minute, as is my mind. I open my mouth repeatedly to pay my respective dues but the words won't come out. They're stuck. Lodged in my throat along with so many other coulda, woulda, shouldas associated with Luke. And in spite of my internal conflict, I figure it's just as well. Because how could a simple 'thank you' ever be enough to repay Luke for what he just said? What he just did for me? 

_Aggh, but I have to say something!_

So I opt for the foot-in-the-mouth alternative: 

"Can I get some coffee?" 

I study him intently, my cheeks still hot as I watch him blink and struggle to put on a poker face. Gone is the tender and telling countenance he bore just a minute before. For a moment it looks as though he thinks he's embarrassed himself but apparently thinks the better of it. 

"Well, the diner's technically closed," he shrugs, finally letting go of me as he moves to rise from the bench. Something about his movements reveal he's a tad shaken up. _You and me both, buddy._ "Caesar's son has an early christening tomorrow so I gave him the night off and Lane, umm, doesn't usually work this shift." 

"Oh." 

He probably hears the disappointment in my voice. 

"But if you want, you know, maybe we could hang out at my place. After all, the night is young and I've got a TV set and a couch and a fridge full of beers if you want to just… hang." Luke peers at me nervously. "Only if you want to, of course." 

There's no pressure in the proposition. Only the obvious incentive of spending time with a man who, although I hadn't realized it until a few minutes ago, adores me. A man I am worried I may have overlooked. A man I think I'm rapidly falling for. A _married_ man. 

"Can I stay the night?" 

The question throws us both for a loop. _Where did that come from?_

"On the couch," I hastily add, my thoughts still ringing with panic as I get up. 

"Sure. Actually, no, I mean, you can have the bed if you want." 

"Cool." Silence. "Thanks." 

And then we just stand there, stupidly, as if there's nothing more to say. 

When all the while I'm thinking--there's _so_ much more to say. 

There's an energy between us. I can feel it. I suppose in a way I've always felt it. Luke must be able to sense it too. After all, a person does not emit electricity of this magnitude without being conscious of doing so, right? This can't be totally one sided, not with the ongoing precedent of "it's right there"s and "Luke's got the flaming hots for you, doll"s and "he's flirted with you numerous times"z. 

I don't know. I won't dwell on signals. Not with that towering love fest the man just dropped in my lap. Instead I think about the proximity of Luke's warmth and how if he were to take one step forward, we'd be close enough to do very naughty things. Things I've always secretly known he'd be good at. 

Here. Outside. In the middle of the town square. Taylor's candy coated ambience, be damned! 

Fervently and unabashedly like in the scrappy little romance novel Mrs. Kim caught Rory and Lane giggling over in junior high. (We hadn't seen Lane for a good two months following the Harlequin incident.) 

But then Luke coughs, uncomfortably, not unabashedly. He's very squirmy and nodding towards the diner. Reality seeps in. 

"So," cough, "are we going to go in or what?" 

Oy. I can't back out now. 

_Whatever then. Take the high road. Restrain yourself. I want beer._

Are you sure about that? 

_That we want beer? It's a consensus._

All right then… 

"Of course," I chirp, flashing him forced teeth. "Just waiting for you to drop the act, Marcel Marceau." 

Luke smiles back, seemingly relieved. It's sincere. I can tell. Luke rarely smiles but it's always sincere. And wow, does he look gorgeous. How is it I've never noticed before just how beautiful he can be when he's happy? Is he happy? Is the fact that I'm coming up to be with him making him happy? 

_Do I make him happy?_

The sheer notion of it is enough to make me smile for real. 

"Come on, mister," I walk with unsubdued strides. "As a world renowned though bizarrely obscure to your knowledge-ed novelist would say: 'The evening glitters before us.'" 

"Hemingway?" he questions, following my lead. 

"Close. Stephen King." 


	2. Femme Fatale

**A.N.** This is pretty strange. I originally wrote this story as a lark. As a way to relieve some of that Gilmore Girls withdrawal that's been building up since "Raincoats and Recipes". But it only took one review to get me all worked up with the knowledge that people actually enjoy my writing. So here's the next edition, a lot sooner than I'd expected. This chapter's a tad shorter but they'll tend to vary with me, that's for sure. Plus, I've already gotten started on the next one. 

(Oh, and Damnmydooah, I'm not quite sure what you meant by "Britishness" because I've never been to England, sorry to say. Nope. Just a humble Latina out of Southern Cali. But I do love classic British literature--Austen and Bronte--and a lot of British bands so maybe that had something to do with it. Go figure.)

* * *

Ch 2: Femme Fatale

* * *

"Luke!" I bite my lip zealously and nudge the wretched set in frustration. "Something's wrong with your TV."

"Nothing's wrong with my TV." 

"No, really. It's extra fuzzy. We're talking furbies here." 

"There's nothing wrong with my TV. Just leave it alone and I'll be right there to adjust it for you, okay?" 

"How about if I give it a good whack? That always works with mine." 

"No, no, no, NO." Luke comes marching towards me gripping a svelte green bottle in each hand. "There will no whacking of any sort in any shape or form, understand?" 

"Dirty." 

"Just drink your beer." 

"Much obliged, good sir," I say, receiving it in swift stride. "You know, I bet I would've made a really great spokesmodel. For beer." 

"Is that so?" Luke murmurs, half-listening as his concentration is now entirely devoted to inching the TV leftward. 

Hellooo, I purr. What a delightful opportunity to scope out the scenery. 

Unbeknownst to Luke, my eager eyes follow him as he lowers himself to his knees and starts fiddling with the cable. Has he always been this sexy doing run-of-the-mill household work? Surely I would've noticed earlier. Please, I mean, look at those fingers. The confidence, the dexterity, the feel of them framing my face from before. I can only imagine what they'd feel like winding round my upper arms, sliding down my inner thigh, grabbing hold of my waist, my back, my breasts, my ass, my… 

Okayyyyy, time to take a swig. 

Where was I, anyway? Oh, that's right. Inane chatter. 

"Absolutely. I'm charming enough and I have nice teeth and I'm a _very_ responsible driver. What's not to love, endorsement wise? When I was a little the nuns were certain I was going to be an actress. The actually sent a letter home, warning Emily that she had a deviant thespian in the works. Needless to say, I changed schools that spring." 

Luke pauses mid-sift to stare at me inquiringly. "I didn't know you were Catholic." 

"I'm not," I flirt, flipping back my zany hair in the vain hopes he'll find me charming as well. "It was just a four star grade school. But even in the fourth grade I could tell it was overrated." 

"Uh huh." And he goes right back to sifting. 

Sigh. I should've known better than to try the hair trick when looking like what Emily dubbed the Bird Lady out of Mary Poppins. But all I'm hoping for is simply a sliver of reciprocation. Some sort of subliminal acknowledgement that I'm cute, he's cute and it's pretty tragic that we both have significant others at the moment. Is that so wrong? A little harmless flirtation… 

_You're pathetic._

Lord, don't you think I know that? And who are you to judge, you're me! 

_Obviously the more rational side._

Well, what do you suggest I have done, Ms. Know-It-All? 

_Here's a thought: why don't you quit ogling your best friend for a second and sit the hell down. Our feet are killing me._

I take another drink (and a seat) to drown her out. 

_Ooo, dizzy._

"Tada," Luke exclaims, somehow unenthusiastically. He flicks the on-button and brings forth a vivid image of despair and destruction in Iraq. Well, call me a drunken American but I'm happy nonetheless. 

"Great!" I hop and wiggle into the squishy cushions. "You fixed it." 

"Yeah, well, sometimes the picture gets a little scrambled. Damn nuisance, really. Can we change this?" 

"Ah, but Luke, you know what the answer to all your problems is, don't cha?" 

"A Budd Light?" he mocks, taking a seat to the right of me and forking over the remote. 

"Pfft." I bring a free hand to my chest, taken aback. "As if I can't handle the real deal? Come on now, Butch. You know better than that." 

"You're changing the subject. And don't call me Butch." 

"Right, right. The answer to all life's problems is…" I raise my drink to the air and pause belatedly, awaiting his annoyance. _Wait for it, wait for it…_

"Lorelai!" 

Victory dancing ensues. 

"Your very own ultra high-tech satellite dish, fully equipped with crystal clear pixels as signaled from our brainy alien adversaries residing in planets far, far away." 

I grin at him expectedly, urging him to distinguish the dynamic spirit that is Lorelai. How could anyone not love me? I'm freaking adorable, dammit! 

Luke blinks. "I'm not getting a dish." 

"But then I could come over all the time and watch it." 

"I'm not getting a dish." 

"Okay…" I pat his arm playfully, lingering just long enough to get away with it. "See, I don't think you fully grasp the value of what's being offered on the table here—the pleasure of my company. Listen Luke, people are drawn to me from far and wide. I'm a tourist attraction in these parts." 

"I'm not getting a dish." 

"Here lies Lucas Danes, Redundancy his middle name." 

"Remind me not to leave you in charge of my funeral plot," Luke grunts unaffectedly. Then he steals the remote in one quick flash. 

"Hey!" 

"You've lost flipping privileges," he explains, raising it over his head and out of reach. When it becomes clear that my petulant pouting will do no good, I resort to what is only natural—I lunge. 

"Do not come between me and my television programming, Luke," I growl. And I mean it. 

Luke laughs delightedly, bringing his arm even higher so that I would have to cross the couch in order to get hold of it. I'm debating doing just that and leaping over his lap when I hear the unmistakable yarn of John Madden, bane of my existence, in the background. 

"No!" I gasp in horror, shielding my eyes from the astro-turfed screen. "No sports!" 

"It's just the highlights from the day." 

"NO SPORTS!" I begin to claw. 

"Lorelai, ease up, would'ya? We're going to spill all over the couch." 

"Don't make me hurt you. I paid good money for this manicure." 

"Yeah, sure. Money you could've spent on, oh I don't know, a down payment for your super high-tech intergalactic dish?" 

"That's _ultra_ high-tech intergalactic dish to you mister and don't tease. I've had a very long hard day, or have your forgotten already?" 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Luke mutters, deterred at last. He lowers his arm and I snatch the clipper eagerly, cupping its savory buttons in the warmth of my greedy little hand. 

But I'm so caught up in the triumph of my score, I neglect to see exactly _where_ my other greedy little hand has landed and exactly _what_ it is cupping. 

Luke drops his beer. 

All I can do is shriek as the brisk brew splashes against the two of us, staining the outside of the sofa and pooling down onto my bare ankles. Both chilled and irked by the sensation, I gape at Luke in complete bewilderment. What happened? And why does my normally rugged companion look so lobster-like all of the sudden? Then I stare at the floor. First I see the spilled booze. But in the corner of my eye I can see my hand. Resting right below Luke's fly. 

_Oh, shit._

Then slow-mo gives way to ultra-sonic. 

"Shit, I'm sorry!" I gasp, dropping the remote, letting go of Luke's crotch and knocking over the bottle that was sitting between my knees in three seconds flat. "Oh, God, I'm double sorry! Triple sorry! I'll help clean up, hold on." 

_Here Lies Lorelai Gilmore, Repugnancy her middle name._

I scramble towards the kitchen in earnest, my face singing with mortification as I search for a towel. Any towel. Paper? No, Luke doesn't have any of those. That would be un-environmentally sound. But... then where are the hand towels? I don't see any. There used to be mountain of them in this drawer. What, did Luke have them relocated to the townhouse in Litchfield? Aggh, why does that thought make me want to tear my hair out? 

"It's okay. I got it!" 

I hear Luke's booming voice ring out from behind and turn to see him coating the doused couch with a big fluffy bath towel. His left pant leg is wet and his expression is apologetic, for whatever reason I don't know. I'm wet too, I realize, feeling my beloved shoes grow soggy. Wait… make that _Rory's_ beloved shoes. Shoot. 

Oh, well. At least Luke doesn't seem to be angry about it. 

But how am I supposed to face him after _this_? How am I to keep up the pretense of platonism after _this_? This horrible… terrible… friendship-altering screw-up. Freud almighty, I touched Luke! I touched him exactly where I'd been longing to touch him since he shook me up, set me straight and called me Wonder Woman. And at this point I'm so ambivalent that I'm not even sure whether or not the action was motivated by my subconscious! 

_Well, it sure wasn't me who told you to do that. Pragmatism, baby._

Don't rub it in. I've already hung up my ill-gotten title as Femme Fatale. 

_No, I meant, why aren't you making the most of this? Laugh it up. It's what we do best._

Brilliant. How am I supposed to "laugh it up"? _This_, right here, is single-handedly the most humiliating thing that has ever happened to me since… since getting knocked up and having to drop out of high school! 

_Exactly. You've been through worse._

… 

Ick. Leave it to me to put things in perspective. All right, much as I hate it, I've gotta be a big girl now. 

_I'll second that._

Pasting on a wavering smile, I lean against the kitchen table's knobby frame, combing out ways to turn an awkward situation into a big ole joke. I deftly settle on: "Great, now we reek like a couple of drunks." 

Luke nods at this, his face impossible to read in the dim lighting of the apartment. 

"Might as well live up to our reps," he replies, walking past me while shaking his head in what I can only hope is good humor. I watch him open the fridge and scrounge up some reinforcements, placing one in what will from this day forward be known as the "dirty hand". 

"Cheers," he shrugs, clicking his bottle against mine. 

"Cheers," I smile shyly. 


	3. Crosstown Counterpart

* * *

Ch 3: Crosstown Counterpart

* * *

Five and a half beers later, Luke and I have settled down considerably. 

The air is cool, the coffee is hot, and the minutes are broaching midnight but we're still gabbing away effortlessly—or at least I am. 

Surprisingly enough, this is actually turning out to be one of the most relaxing evenings I've had all year. There is no worry, no disruption, only the age-old amusement of two good friends laughing their asses off at nothing in particular. 

Then again, the bulk of our happy hour has been intimately complemented by the fact that I'm now wearing Luke's clothing… 

After my dinner dress got all damp and dewey and we had knocked back a few, Luke got it in his head that there was no way he was going to let me go back home and change. Now being the well-bred, well-mannered, and classy young broad that I am, I naturally protested. Honestly, there was much remonstration on my part. But poor selfless Luke, he just kept on insisting and insisting and well, here I am, feeling small and dainty amid a sea of blue flannel. 

And in spite of my ongoing threats to belt out the Lumberjack Song, I think I'm finally beginning to understand the fabric's mass appeal to the working man. 

Or is it just that this so-called "working man" is finally beginning to look massively appealing to me? Hmm… 

"Lorelai!" 

_Who? Huh? What now?_

"Do you always take up the entire couch or is this just some neurotic compulsion to run me out on the floor?" 

_Aggh_, I grimace, bolting from a cloud of contemplation. Luke's grumbling has pretty much killed my short-lived fantasy of the two of us getting hot and heavy in the stockroom. 

"Why do you always have to ruin the moment?" I whine, swatting him with a sofa pillow in an overly callous fashion. It's infuriating to discover that for all my drive he takes little offense. 

"What are you talking about? What moment?" 

_Swat!_

Once again, Luke barely flinches. No way is he going to pretend he doesn't remember backing me up against the wall and kissing my neck inside that really trippy electric purple haze, is he? 

"Seriously, What mo—" 

"Nevermind!" I swat one last time for emphasis before wistfully evacuating his side of the couch. "Far be it from your blue collar man-tality to even begin to comprehend the intricate inner workings of the modern day woman. We have needs, Luke. We _need_ our moments! So you just go back to what you do best. Sitting pretty." 

And I manage to let that one sink in for all but four seconds before Luke develops the nerve to retaliate, swatting back. _Oof_, I rub my shoulder. That's smart. 

"All right, I don't really know what's going on in that freak show head of yours but I've got a fairly strong hunch you just insulted me… somehow." 

"Lighten up, Floyd. I was only joking." 

"Floyd?" 

"Yeah, Floyd. As in Pretty Boy Floyd." 

"My dentist's first name is Floyd. There is nothing pretty about him." 

"But you have pretty teeth." 

Ah, the telltale visage of utter and complete confusion on Luke's face. Does it _ever_ get old? 

"Ooo, ooo, ooo! Platypus!" Ever prone to distraction, I yank myself upright and start pointing at the screen in front of us. 

"Plata-what?" Luke questions lazily, my toothy-comment quickly forgotten. 

"Who are you, Jessica Simpson? _Platypus_. As in duck billed platypus, the semi-marsupial of Australia." 

"Semi-marsupial?" 

"Eh, well there's somewhat of a debate going on about its genus. Kind of like that whole panda debacle only with less prestigious biologists. I guess those egotistic 'head honchos' aren't very interested in the platypus." 

"And you are?" I look over my shoulder and discover Luke staring at me as if I had two heads. And who knows? Maybe in his inebriated state I do. 

"Hello, it's only the greatest animal on the face of the earth! Totally unique. And did I mention that it quacks _and_ growls?" I beam at him pointedly. 

Luke throws his hands up in the air. "I'm sold." 

"I knew you would be." 

And then we revert to the Discovery Channel. 

"They're sorta funny looking, aren't they?" Luke offers, scratching his head in evaluation and throwing his feet up on the coffee table. 

"Luke, please, you're insulting my familiar." 

"Familiar?" 

"In a past life." I nod sagely. 

Luke grumbles and shifts away, signaling that I've confused him to the point where he's up and ready for a change of topic. I figure I'll let him pick this one. 

"Can I ask you a question?" 

"Shoot," I yawn, stretching out my bare thigh in front of me idly. It's done in part to alleviate my strained muscles but there's also the underlying motive of attracting Luke's interest. I try not to smile when I catch him studying the movement more than passively. Good thing I shaved this morning. 

"What do you think your life would be like if you… if you hadn't had Rory?" 

"Wow," I whistle, tucking my leg back in a retired position. "Congratulations, Luke. You must make the fifty-hundred-thousandth person to ask me that question." 

"Ah, jeez, really?" The words slip out, slightly slurred but unmistakably regretful. "Screw it then. I'm sorry, I—" 

"Relax, hun," I giggle, touched by his inadvertent spout of sensitivity. "It's not your fault. And you're in luck, actually, because you get the sparkly polished answer." 

"Oh?" In the blink of an eye, Luke has mellowed and he slides closer to me expectedly. So close that we're hip to hip and his arm is resting behind my head, like a couple of care free teenagers at the drive-in. His body's so inviting and the arrangement so near compromising that I can almost pretend it's flirtatious. "Which is?" 

"Well," I giggle again, thrilled at the irony of Luke relocating to my side of the couch. "I probably would've gone to Yale. Ultimately not because my dad wanted me to but because I wanted to, since I was wee and small. And then there would've been graduate school, presumably the West Coast because I'd always wanted to go there and, you know, give birth to a whole new wave of rock and roll." 

"Of course." 

"Let's see… and if I hadn't had Rory I probably never would've stumbled upon Stars Hollow so I doubt I'd still be living in Connecticut. Damn… that would truly suck 'cuz I love it here. Oh, and I definitely wasn't planning on having children until I was at least… huh, the age I am today. Wow. This is scary." 

"But what about occupation-wise?" The chatterbox-formerly-known-as-Luke asks, leading me to ponder over whether he's been spending too much time with me lately. "Would you have ended up opening your own inn and everything?" 

"Probably not," I fathom, my brow furrowing with fine line of the hypothetical. "What I'm doing now is completely different from what I'd anticipated. But that's how it is for everyone, isn't it? Few people end up where they thought they'd be. Sookie wanted to be a surgeon—much as I tremble at the thought of her with a scalpel, Michel a dancer and-or head of an evil corporation, and right up until I had Rory I wanted to be Belinda Carlisle so God knows where I'd be." 

And then I shake my head in overload. This is getting to be a little too deep for my tastes. 

"Well, what about you?" I spur, eager to grill him for a change. "What would you be doing if you hadn't opened the diner?" 

"I'd be a carpenter." The response is nothing short of automatic. 

"Like Jesus and Bob Vila?" 

"Yes," he sighs. "Like Jesus and Bob Vila." 

"So how'd you decide between the cooking and the carpentry?" 

"Oh, you know..." Luke toils off and darts his eyes downward, ill at ease. "I flipped a coin." 

The picture that comes to mind, of young Luke beside a railroad track with a pocket full of pennies, sends me reeling. 

"Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait! Run that by me one more time. You based your entire financial future and livelihood on a _coin toss_?" 

"Yup." 

"Luke," I chuckle in amazement, "that's insane." 

He rolls his eyes. "Then I take it we're kindred spirits." 

And gazing upon him just now, perfectly and delectably handsome with just short of a six pack in his belly and not even a scrap of an effort, I start to wonder if maybe Luke's right. Maybe we are alike, in some kooky, kismet kind-of-a-way. Maybe we are the yin and the yang and the Frankie and the Johnny and the abstract and the concrete rolled up into one big whole. Maybe we are… meant to be. 

… 

Oh, no. Not this again. 

How many times are we going to have to go through this? Bad, Lorelai, bad! You're taken. You have a boyfriend. An exceptionally witty, elegantly dressed, somewhat eccentric boyfriend whose Dutch, yes, may be a tad on the rusty side but he's still a catch! Jason's crazy about you. And Luke—Luke's not your soulmate. He belongs to Nicole. 

That's right, _Nicole_. 

Prissy, pretty, super-model-thin Nicole with her Ann Taylor outfits and her baby doll voice and her two hundred dollar hair cut and her Ivy League law degree and her kissing Luke behind the counter that one time and in front of the counter that other time and her luring Luke onto the Love Boat and her stealing and stowing away the only guy I ever truly… 

_Whoa, Nelly, whoa._

What am I doing? God, I must've drank quarts more than I thought to be bitching at the extent that I am. And the worse part is that I _know_ it's not me. I'm better than this. I don't hate Nicole. 

_Oh, please. Not even a little?_

No, she's never even been rude to me! 

_Sure. Not outwardly so. But you and I both know we hate her._

No, I don't. Sherrie, admittedly, yeah but Nicole and I have always stood on neutral ground. I hardly know the woman, for Pete's sake! How could I hate her when I haven't the slightest sense of who she is? 

_She's Luke's wife. That's enough. _

But— 

_Why can't you just face it? We're petty, Lorelai. When it comes to men, we always want to have our cake and eat it too._

Now that's simply absurd. It's Luke's food I'm after, not the man himself. And look, if he were ever legitimately interested, he would've asked me out, right? He was the best looking available guy in Stars' Hollow within our age bracket for many years and I was his crosstown counterpart. God, he must've had zillions of opportunities. 

"But to tell you the truth," 

Oh, thank God, the best looking formerly-available guy's talking again. Man, if I was ever in need of a distraction… 

"I'm actually pretty happy with the way things turned out. My job, living in Stars' Hollow…" 

I want to interrupt him and call attention to his alleged residence in Litchfield but I'm far too browbeaten from the unprecedented Nicole rampage to open up a can of worms. 

"Because I've lived elsewhere before. Not for very long but I migrated a little. And what it kept coming back down to was that this," Luke gestures around him, "is it." 

"What do you mean?" I question, wrinkling my nose in perplexity. 

"Stars' Hollow. It's one of the few places left in America that hasn't fallen victim to crime and drugs and perversion and that other crap that's out there. I never had to deal with that growing up and I guess I took it for granted until—did I ever mention I once lived with Rachel in Chicago for a number of months?" 

"No," I mumble, irrationally jealous yet again. "You didn't." 

"New York too. I tell ya, sometimes I'm amazed Jess came out as well as he did." 

"Okayyyy. And now I cut you off." As much as I love Luke baring his soul, this is getting to be ridiculous and so I grab and down the remainder of his beer. Big gulps equal instant refreshment, for body and mind. 

"You're going to have one hell of a hangover in the morning," he says knowingly. 

"Eh," I yawn, "It's been a while. I'm entitled to one." 

My mind is flickering on and off when I hear Luke rise up. "Maybe we should go to sleep before it gets any later. It's twelve-twenty already. Plus I've got that early lettuce delivery to sign for in the morning." 

"Noooo," I whimper, dreading the inevitable. "Lettuce is gross. And sleeping leads to hangovers. You said so yourself." 

"Come on," Luke prompts, grabbing my hand and yanking me up on my wobbly feet. "You're going to have to face your demons sometime." 

"I'm not tired," I groan, resting my head on his amicable shoulder. 

"Oh, no? Your eyelids look like saddlebags." 

"Jeez, Luke. You really know your way to girl's heart." 

"And you really know your way to a man's pants. What of it?" 

Hearing _that_ come out of Luke's mouth is almost enough to make up for the cupping incident, the Nicole rampage and the size too small Mary Janes Emily forced me to endure all throughout my baneful childhood. 

"Don't say it!" he warns, his voice full of gripe and foreboding. 

"_Ultra_-Dirty!" 

"Uggh, I so set you up for that." 

"And I greatly appreciate it," I laugh, skipping my way to the bathroom. "You don't mind if I use it first, do you?" 

"Naw," Luke waves me along. "By all means, go right ahead." 

"Oh, and you wouldn't happen to have an extra toothbrush?" 

"Uh, there should be one in the medicine cabinet that I bought for Nicole but she never got around to using it. It's yellow. Nicole doesn't like yellow." 

Doesn't like _yellow_? 

I gawk at his retreating back with a fleeting mixture of pity and irritation. (Mostly the latter.) But what am I to do? My best friend's married to the poster child for picky. 

_Hear that? You're doing it again._

Sighing guiltily, I try to banish my bitchiness to foreclosed land of below and beware and open the medicine cabinet with excessive precaution, half-expecting the very woman to come pouncing out of it. I like yellow, I think, studying the sad little brush longingly. 

"How do you want the bed made up? Do you want me to tuck in both sides?" Luke calls, bringing me back. 

"Ummm…" I pause. And then it happens. 

Out of the not so clear blue, a stream of disturbing images cuts through my weirded brain: _Luke… Bed… Nicole… The place where Luke bedded Nicole._

_Captain, all signs point to abort. M'aidez! M'aidez!_

I'm seasick. Seasick and dying to be anywhere else but right here, right now. At any rate, rather than hightailing it to my place and leaving Luke in the dust, I may have just enough sobriety to think outside the panic box. Okay. Time to employ some of that classic Gilmore charm… 

"You know what? On second thought, why don't you take the bed? I'll be just fine on the couch." 

"You're kidding me!" His tone is incredulous. "After you fought so hard for it during the last sleepover? Why turn it down today?" 

"Yeah, but you woke up with a backache, remember? And then you groused at Taylor for whistling 'Mary Had a Little Lamb.' I still feel really bad about that." 

"Lorelai, if this about your feeling guilty over Taylor then that's ridiculous. You should've seen how I treated him this morning. Just take the damn bed." 

"No, no. It's about you. You need your mattress. And, hey—I can sleep on Jess'!" 

"It's in storage." 

"Oh." My voice falls flat. I'm praying vigilantly that he isn't able to detect the bundles of butterflies laying waste to my stomach. "Well, I still want you to have it." 

"Why?" Luke's upper body pops itself through the crack in the doorway, startling me so much that I drop Sunny, the rejected toothbrush. _Yikes_, I rub my forehead. I didn't even hear him come over here. 

"I don't know…" I bend down to retrieve Sunny in effort to avoid his scrutiny. "Because I'm your friend and I care about you." 

It sounds beyond pathetic to my own ears. Lamentable, really. What a sorry, sorry, choice of words. Ohhh, but I don't want to look… I literally have to force myself to straighten up and observe just what sort of a reaction I've induced. 

… 

Great. It appears I've grown a whole new second head. 

"Okay," Luke finally responds, obviously discomfited by my lame avowal of affection. And I can't say I blame him. "I'll get you some blankets."

* * *

**A.N.** Next chapter is where all the silly string starts to unravel, or so speak. Stay tuned. 


	4. Little Orphan Antsy

**A.N.** I'd like to thank everyone who has taken the time to review. You have no idea how much you guys make my day.  
This chapter was somewhat difficult for me to write because it's a filler. As it turns out, I don't do so hot with the transitions. I kept having to shorten it because I was getting ahead of myself. But then I'm getting ahead of myself… read on.

* * *

Ch 4: Little Orphan Antsy

* * *

It's already been ten minutes since "lights out" but I'm about as restless as Robert Downey Jr. gone cold turkey. I've experimented with no less than a myriad of different sleeping positions but they all seem to lead back to the very same conclusion: couches suck. 

Nicole cooties or not, I should've taken the bed. 

"Gah!" I wail, smothering my cry into a blessedly stuffed pillow. 

Silly me. I presumed that passing out after a sordid sequence of emotional mini-dramas and alcoholic beverages would come naturally to a woman my age. But suddenly I feel far from mature. This feeling… this pesky, frisky, dare I say, discontented feeling is essentially young in and of itself. Young and stubborn. 

After tossing and turning for the umpteenth time, I decide enough is enough. If I set out for the Dragonfly tomorrow with droopy eyes and haggard hair, well, that would only lend credence to Gran's wayward assumption that I'm a washout in the making. (Not to mention I won't have the energy to deal with Michel deriding me as the second coming of Broom Hilda.) 

Besides, it's better to down a glass of milk and some sleeping pills than to lie here miserable all night, pining for Luke. 

_Pining for Luke?_

Man, oh, man. Where's Rory when I need her? 

I slink off and around the couch peevishly, reasoning that Snoring Beauty won't notice the slight rustle as I do so. And even if he does, tough luck! He took a bite out of _my_ beauty sleep so he deserves no more, no less. 

But as I'm tiptoeing towards the kitchen, something purely preordained kicks in. I am inordinately struck with the invariable craving for a donut—or as I like to call it, the sweet siren of glazed goodness. 

And that obviously leads to mental musing on as to whether or not I should go downstairs and partake of the glazed goodness. Indulge myself. 

You know, so long as I'm up. 

Oof, but I better not. The night crawler that is Kirk might catch a glimpse and then I'd never hear the end of it from Luke. 

… 

Or what about Bootsy? And Babette? What about any of the other meddlesome townsfolk Kirk is likely to prattle too? How would it look—my ransacking the diner in the dead of the night, wearing nothing but Luke's boxers and flannel? 

Oh, but I know how it would look to _them._ Nearly nineteen years in Stars' Hollow has taught me a thing or two about grapevines and provincial wildfire. Especially where Luke and I are concerned. These people are completely predisposed to jumping to conclusions. Juicy ones. The juiciest being that _we_ were sharing a night of steamy illicit sex and that _I_ went downstairs to refuel. 

Or is that solely what I'm thinking? 

Envisioning… 

Elaborating… 

God, I need sleep. 

Heaving a regretful sigh, I open up the refrigerator door and am appalled and aghast when in place of milk I come face to face with a carton of Soy Dream. _Soy Dream_?! When did I step into a John Grisham novel? 

That does it. I'm getting my donut. 

Frothing at the mouth and just a granola bar away from seeing red, I shove the offensively healthy container to the very back of the fridge. And then I curse when the force of it rattles Luke's grade AA organic eggs. What, is the entire universe against me tonight? Can't I ever catch a brake? 

Glimpsing behind my back fretfully, I'm on pins, needles and tenterhooks as I await the rhythmic rumbling of the Soyman's slumber. 

… "Zzz." 

Phew. That was a close one. 

"Idiot," I whisper, wishing I could put a stop to all the unwonted idiosyncrasies. Why oh why do I insist on flailing around in each and every move I make? It's as though I've been summoning up a storm of strange and there has been little headroom between the clouds. 

_You can say that again._

You sense it too, right? It's like I can't focus. I'm all over the place. 

_Totally. One minute you're sniffling and sniveling—_

Bawling and blubbering— 

_And the next you want to jump Luke's bones. Although for me it was sort of a toss up between him and the beer._

So why not have your cake and eat it too? 

_Hehe. Didn't I tell ya?_

Yeah, you did. We're nothing if not consistent. So what do I do now? 

_Huh-hoooh, now you want my advice? Is that it?_

Please? 

_I'm sorry, Lorelai, but I'm afraid you're just a few fries shy of happy meal._

Uh huh. A very horny happy meal. 

… 

God, we need sleep. 

I mean, _I_ need sleep. I mean… I suppose I'll have to make do with water. 

Closing the refrigerator door with every intention of hunting down some Tylenol PM, I turn in the direction of the bathroom. But then I feel a certain something, paper-thin and ably angular, skid across my toes. I look down and low and behold, there lies a mysterious envelope. 

Huh. That's funny. Almost as if it came out of thin air. 

Maybe it was in the fridge and I accidentally knocked it out. But why would Luke be storing mysterious envelopes alongside his mysterious food? Wait, I think I just answered my own question. 

Go on. Open it, you know you want to. 

_Don't even think about it! You should respect the man's privacy._

Please, he's down for the punch. It's not like he's going to find out. 

_But—oh, yeah. I never thought of it that way._

And I'm unfolding the flap… 

_Oh. My. God._

I scan the check's entries over and over, blinking inanely with the fear that I'm in a soy dream. Because there it is: _$30,000.00_ from Luke Danes to Lorelai Gilmore. The answer to my prayers, the passport to Sookie's stove, the foundation of my future. $30,000.00, without the dinner, without the charts, without the bullshit, without even so much as the question. 

There. 

Right there. 

Staring at those seven meaningful digits, I know that I want him. And I mean _want_ him. 

It's lewd. It's obscene. But I can't help the surge of heat that sparks and grows within the pit of my stomach, tearing me up inside. The waves of sexual tension that have been radiating off my body throughout the evening have culminated into desire so wanton, it would put Miss Patty to shame. 

Luke _loves_ me. 

What I felt before in his arms, during his speech… that was not a fluke. That was the universe giving me a much needed kick in the ass because Luke is _it_. He's the one. He's always been the one. And I've simply been too caught up in my own warbled world of the doomed distractions and red herrings to see it. 

But I see it now. And I love him too. 

Hell, I can't explain it but at this moment I want Luke more than I have ever wanted any other man. Period. Which is not to say that I can even remember anyone or anything else… 

_All I see is Luke._

Very slowly, as if in a trance, I slide the check back into the envelope and tuck the flap back into its triangular slot. I set it down on the table and forge ahead. One foot, good. Two, better. Am I going to fall before I make it to his bed? Quite possibly. Am I tipsier than a sailor the night before scheduled leave? I wouldn't rule that out either. 

But my body is humming a mantra: _I am in love with Luke, I am going to make love to Luke, I am in love with Luke…_

I make my way over to the foot of the bed and observe him lying flat on his back with his right arm strewn across the pillow. His breathing is sound and steady but I'm willing to wager he's not REM-ing just yet. So I come closer, closer still, and reach for his hand. His loving hand. I bend down and bring it towards my face, reveling in rough texture as I press a warm kiss into the center of his palm. 

Luke twitches. I let it drop. 

What do I do if he wakes up? 

Am I having second thoughts? Somewhere in the back of my mind I know I should be. I'm drunk and emotional and, duh, maybe trying to sleep with your friend when you're drunk and emotional isn't the brightest idea this side of Einstein. There are other reasons too. If only I could summon them back to me and stop thinking about Luke's torso, which is looking remarkably sexy stretched out across the boxcar mattress and decade old comforter. 

But extenuating circumstances are hazy and notwithstanding as I watch Luke open those pretty blue eyes of his. 

His lids slide shut momentarily before they open again, wider this time, and Luke is hurrying to rise up. 

"Lorelai!" he rasps, his voice uncharacteristically shaky. "What the hell are you doing standing there? You damn near gave me a heart attack!" 

_Waiting for you to wake up so I could ravish you, what else?_

"I can't sleep." 

"How the hell can that be? You said you were exhausted." 

"Yeah, I know but that was before Little Orphan Antsy decided to pay me a visit. And then I wanted milk. And then... and then I found the check," I swallow, scuffing my bare foot against the ground. 

Luke straightens and sighs, rubbing his temples. "Yeah, umm, I meant to give that to you tomorrow morning over breakfast." 

"You didn't have to do it, Luke. Especially not after that whole self-sufficiency cheer you made up for me. Rah-rah-sisboom-bah, Lorelai can do it, yah." 

"I don't remember saying that." 

"Hey, it's your word against mine." 

"Right." He cocks his head at me. "Was there anything else or did you just want to say thank you or something?" 

"Why did you do it?" I blurt out, itching for him to fess up. 

"Ah, jeez, isn't it a little late for this?" Luke drops his head back on his pillow and scoots back under the covers. 

"No, Luke, seriously, I need to know." 

"We'll talk in the morning." 

"But I _need_ to know." 

"And we'll _talk_ in the morning." 

"I need to know now." 

"You really don't let up, do you?" Luke grumbles, opening his eyes and regarding me drowsily. "I thought it was, I mean, I think it _is_, a sound investment." 

"And it's not because… you don't feel sorry for me?" I prompt, fearful he'll say yes. 

"No, I don't. I think I made it pretty clear you're capable of taking care of yourself." 

"Did the fact that I'm your friend factor into this at all?" 

"Probably, yeah, but not so much that--" 

"I mean, how do you feel about me?" 

"Lorelai!" Luke reaches out behind him and grabs the alarm clock. He turns to thrust it in the air and wave it around in front of me, as if it were a crucifix warding off evil spirits. "Do you see where the little hand and the big hand are resting? _Resting_! Which is more than I can say for you and me. Especially me. 

"It is a quarter to one in the morning, crazy lady, and I am not up for twenty questions at a quarter to one in the morning. And furthermore, after the night we had, one would _think_ that you would be as burned out as I am but I've obviously underestimated you, haven't I? 

"Forgotten all about the fact that there's caffeine running through your veins and I guess that's partly my fault for playing dealer and contributing to your mindless addiction but I run a diner you're my best customer and I need the business. _Business_, Lorelai! I have got to be up in less than five hours to run my business, understand?" 

"I understand," I murmur, having processed maybe five percent of what he just said. "Can I just say one more thing?" 

"God, what now?" 

"I think I'm in love with you."

* * *

**A.N.** Okay, I know this was pretty bad but I had a major case of writer's block and self-editing overload. Hopefully the next chapter will be a big improvement. 


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